An Ember in the Ashes: Chapters 14–23

He spent half of my leave introducing me to the heads of powerful houses and the other half railing at me for not solidifying as many alliances as possible.

The Trials are a test of my mettle. I might not know what's in store, but I must be prepared anyway.

I must conquer my weaknesses and exploit competitors’ weaknesses.

Despite the heavy silver cuffs and high, painful-looking bun that mark all of Blackcliff’s drudges, nothing about her says slave.

Defiance flashes across her face as she holds my gaze, and for a second, I see my own desire for freedom mirrored, intensified in her eyes.

She walks carefully, gingerly—the Commandant must have whipped her recently.

Her lips purse, and she tilts her head as if to say, Do you wish to interfere and bring my wrath down upon yourself?

Four they are, and four traits we seek:
Courage to face their darkest fears
Cunning to outwit their foes
Strength of arms and mind and heart
Loyalty to break the soul.

The Aspirant who wins two Trials first will be named victor. Whoever comes in second, with one win, will be named Blood Shrike. The others will die. There will be no tie.

The Augurs wish me to stress that while the Trials are taking place, the accepted rules of sportsmanship apply. You will not engage in cheating, sabotage, or chicanery.

“She’s to receive ten lashes for her incompetence. If you’re intent on helping her, perhaps you wish to take on her punishment?”

Ten days have passed since my mission began, and while I haven’t learned anything that will help me save Darin, I have learned how to press a Blackcliff uniform in five minutes flat, how to carry a heavy tray up the stairs with half a dozen welts on my back, and how to remain so silent that I forget my own existence.

I lick my lips, already thirsty, and hunch beneath the paltry shade of the Jack tree to consider my predicament.

But the boy sees, and his clammy fingers pull mine away from my head with inexorable force.

But when I reach the edge of the carnage, the ground lurches and the battlefield stretches out ahead of me again in its entirety.

I won’t kill so many. I tell myself. I won’t. An insidious voice in my head chuckles when I try to convince myself of this. You’re a Mask, the voice says. Of course you’ll kill so many. You’ll kill more. I run from the thought, willing with my entire mind to break free of the battlefield.

He fights recklessly, almost frenziedly, and I easily evade his assault.

You don’t know the first thing about spying. That’s clear. Here are some basics: Gossip with the other slaves—you’ll be surprised at what you learn. Keep your hands busy—sewing, scrubbing, fetching. The busier you are, the less likely it is that anyone will question your presence, wherever you might be. If you see a chance to get your hands on real information, take it. But always have an exit plan.

The simulacrum's hand shoots out to grab my arm, and a bone-deep cold jolts through me.

“We have the boy now. Our brothers gnaw at his soul. Soon he will be mad and ripe. Then we shall feast.”

“Normally, I’d take an eye for such insolence,” the Commandant muses.

The smell of singed flesh fills my nostrils, and I hear myself begging for mercy, then sobbing, then screaming.

She survived initiation, the wilds, border skirmishes, whippings.

She is a connoisseur of pain the way others are connoisseurs of wine.

“If you want to be free of him, then why go along with his every whim? Why not stand up to him?”

Even at a distance of a few feet, everything about him screams violence, from the short black hair to the big hands to the fact that each muscle is honed to deadly perfection.

The bandages that encircle his forearms and the scratches that mar his hands and face only make him look more vicious.

After I drink it down, she sits in front of me, her scars inches from my face. I gaze at them, but they no longer seem grotesque. Is it because I've gotten used to seeing them? Or because I have a disfigurement of my own?

When she was done with Zain, she gathered every last slave in Blackcliff. She wanted to know who'd been friends with him. Wanted to teach us a lesson for not turning in a traitor.

The stars are followed by a trio of attackers who spring from the smoke like coiled snakes. They are lithe and quick, their bodies and faces wrapped in funereal strips of black cloth.

Cunning to outwit their foes. There’s a way to kill these things. They must have a weakness. I just have to figure out what it is.

A series of full-body attacks allowing one to identify a combatant’s deficiencies.

The wraith vanishes, the smoke dissipates, and the barracks go still, as if the last fifteen minutes never happened.

Helene's eyes are ferocious slits, and for the first time, I see her as others must—deadly, remorseless.

Before my disbelieving eyes, the particles weave together, coalescing into large, manlike shapes with grasping hands and holes for eyes.

“The Empire tried forcing apprentices on me for years, but I didn’t find one until I caught Darin spying on me from up there.”

“You wanted him to make weapons for the Scholars?" That would be treason.

Memories cascade through my head: Darin’s silence when Pop told us of how he set the bones of a child beaten by auxes. Darin excusing himself when Nan and Pop discussed the most recent Martial raids, fists clenched. Darin ignoring us to draw Scholar women flinching from Masks and children fighting over a rotted apple in the gutter.

Maybe it was the only way he could fight his outrage at what was happening to his people.

“I want you to know that I think what you’re doing is brave. Really brave.” Her words come out in a torrent, as if she’s been hoarding them all for this moment.